Every Time it Snows
by SpaceSpirit
Summary: A simple mountain rescue goes wrong for International Rescue. Gordon battles the elements and his memories. Scott has a tough decision to make.


A piece of space comes down to earth every time it snows.

At least, that's what Mum used to say. Not a metaphorical _'it feels like I'm among the _stars' sort of space, but a literal, microscopic piece of celestial dirt.

Because a snowflake has three ingredients: ice, water, and dust. That dust can come from anything – even meteors – and when it starts to snow, Gordon likes to think the flakes (dainty and crystalline and lightly falling) were once ragged and lethal and weightless.

But the beautiful thing is, it's not only space in snowflakes.

Maybe, in one flake, there's a dot of volcanic rock. In another, a bit of pollen. Every unique flake latches on to its own piece of _something_, before forming, then falling, then melting on the back of Gordon's hand.

When they started falling, even though it was rare, he and Mum used to try and catch them and see their shape before they melted away – _each uniquely different, _she said, _like you boys_. She always loved the snow, and while other kids wished it would snow so they could miss school, Gordon wished it would snow so Mum would catch snowflakes with her smile.

It's snowing now, thick and fast, but as Gordon stares at the back of his hand, trying to focus his eyes, he sees some flakes aren't melting at all.

He's aware of the biting wind around him, and the fact he's not wearing any gloves – _Dad always said to wear gloves when it snowed, or your fingers would fall off, so where are the gloves? _There's a god-awful ringing in his ear that's leeching into his temple, and as he tries to hold his hand still, Gordon feels the whole world tilt sideways –

Oh _hey_, it's not snow he's staring at. It's ash. Ash, which is no parts water and no parts ice, and certainly doesn't belong three thousand, one hundred and twenty metres above sea level.

You know what else doesn't belong that far above the sea? Gordon Tracy. If only Gordon were a piece of snow, he could fall from space and dissolve into the ocean, feel its warm embrace rather than this hounding chill—

"_What was that?"_

Gordon didn't know noises could cause pain, but he feels this one stagger through his veins, like ink through lines of water, and when Gordon blinks it's _black_, then not,_ then black_. Scott's voice is loud – _so damn loud –_ and as Gordon reaches a hand to turn the com in his ear down, it comes away wet.

And now its not only ash and snow on his hand, but blood too.

John says something – A_n explosion? Electrical fault? - _but his voice is carried away by the wind. It's okay that John says anything at all because he's up there, in space, among meteors soon to be snowflakes, and he can see them, and see what's going on, and it must not be _too _bad if he's saying it calmly.

"_Do we know what caused it?" _Virgil is a song and he comes in loud and clear. Gordon lifts his head, as though he's right there, but he's not, it's just dark and cold. _ "Are all the guests on the train?"_

"_I've got my group, just bringing them in now. Gordo had some too, I think." _That's Alan, and he's high and low, bright, like the stars in Gordon's eyes. Blink and they're there, blink and they're not. Blink and there's flames, high up, in the trees. _"Should we go check out the blast?"_

Train? Blast?

Gordon went on a train once with Dad, an old-fashioned steam train that was small and smelt of burning coal. They went to see penguins and to _talk _so now the sound of trains and throat-sticking smoke reminds him of guilt and uncomfortable silence.

But Gordon's not on a train now. The howl of the wind is a little like the scream of breaks on the tracks, but he's definitely not on one.

"_No, first priority is evacuation,"_ comes Scott's reply, and Gordon wonders where the others are standing, because he's certainly not standing at all. He's kneeling, half in snow, half out, ash and flakes swirling around him in an odd, indistinguishable mix. _"Is your group on board, Al? What about you, Gordon?"_

On board? Group?

Gordon can't see a train, but he can see a building and some trees that are on fire. They look pretty, with orange against the velvet black of the night, a violent contrast.

Gordon was leaving the building, it was clear – wasn't it?

He looks down and turns the torch in his watch on. Bright. Blinding. A world shifting, spine tingling twinge. No gloves and no coat. Why the hell has he got no coat when it's negative five degrees outside?

"_Yup, and all accounted for,"_ Alan says. "_Can you tell what caused the blast John? Something to do with the power outage?"_

Gordon had a coat, he's sure of it. There's a sleeve of a jacket sticking out from beneath some snow just a way from where he's kneeling, but he's pretty sure that belongs to someone else. It's a soft purple and it looks warm, like something Mum would've worn.

There's a man a metre away from the sleeve, lying on his back, unmoving. It can't be his jacket, either. He's already got one.

John says something – _blurred_. Then Scott. Then Virgil again. Static sprinkles in between words, threatening to dissolve them altogether.

The snow is stained red and Gordon can't tell if it's his eyes, the reflection of flames, or real life. When he looks closer, he sees the purple jacket has fingers sticking out of it with red nail polish. Something in his brain ticks, slowly, painfully. Buried. Somebody's buried.

"_There certainly weren't any warning signs of it—"_

"There's someone…" Gordon says, and speaking makes the back of his throat ache into his ears. His voice breaks the air, like the snap of a glowstick. He wraps one arm around the other. "She…or he…they need help."

There's silence over the coms, static dotting like the falling snow.

"_Gordon?" _Virgil says, in a tone which reads _crap, I left my brother behind in a supermarket and got halfway home before realising. _"_You alright? Where are you?"_

At this point, Gordon should say _no, Virgil, I'm not. There are black spots in front of my eyes and for some reason, my legs don't want me to use them. _But Gordon is also aware of the people in front of him and the rumbling beneath him.

"Fine," Gordon pushes his elbow against the ground, then his palm, to upright himself, shaky from the fall and the pull of the wind. "It looks like someone's doing some…last-minute landscaping."

"_Shit, you're still down there?"_

Down?

Out?

On a train?

Up a mountain?

"Yeah and ah…" Gordon brings a hand up to his right eye and rubs it, presses hard, trying to make the ache that's pulsing through his head like an eighty's nightclub, go away. Everything's shadowy and menacing in the chiaroscuro light of his flashlight, so it's the name of his biggest brother that falls from his lips first. "Ah…Scotty?"

"_Yeah? You okay?"_

"I'm okay. But there are people here who need help. Fast. We were…we were just heading to the train, I think and then…"

"_Alright." _There's something in the silence between Scott's words that Gordon can't quite read, something low and cautious and thin. When he next speaks, his words are measured and slow. "_Gords, do you think you can—"_

But whatever Scott's going to say, a wash of white noise breaks through his com like surf on sand, rippling through his head, neck, _back—_then it goes quiet.

Snow falls, gently. A tree branch crackles and pops above him. Smoke sticks to his throat. Guilt spills, like light through a doorway.

"Scott?" Gordon taps the device. Once. Twice. No response. _Shit. _"John?" Gordon doesn't like the way his own voice rises, but there's an invincibility that comes with having brothers in one's ear, or on one's wrist, that fizzles into _lump-in-the-throat_ fear when that lifeline is cut. Gordon tries to stretch out, lowering even his breathing in attempt to keep his balance. There's a sickening tug throughout his body that screams at him – _not a good idea._

His left leg gives out before his right and Gordon's back on his knees.

* * *

Scott Tracy doesn't panic.

Scott can send Alan solo up to space without blinking an eye – _John will be around, though, won't he? If anything goes wrong._

Scott can stand aside as Kayo dabbles in shadows, off on her own – _but she's not on her own, really, they're only a call away._

Scott Tracy can pull Virgil from the sky with only a few seconds to spare – _hell, if he was a second later –_ he can leave John with a once-murderous robot – _and have doubts about it – _ drop Gordon near a far-too-large tuatara – _he's got fast legs for a short kid – _and walk on top of his plane going 24,000 kilometres an hour _without_ panicking.

Scott Tracy on a simple mountain rescue, in control, is even less likely to panic.

And It _was_ simple - albeit large scale. At 3,120 metres above the sea, the Gornegrat ski lodge is one of the highest in the world. But when warnings of a blizzard hit and the power in the lodge blows unexpectedly, people start to get a little shaky. With the power gone, the electric train, which just so happens to be the only way up and down the mountain, can no longer run.

Nerves rise, which is fair enough, though Scott would assume people could bunker down, ration out food, play some cards, and wait for the storm to pass. Only, with the power dead, the heating's gone too, and people are getting awfully cold. Not just _any_ people either – but the people that can afford to stay in a lodge so high its basically eye level with the Matterhorn.

And those sorts of people, with money, and tight schedules, know how to pull a few strings. So, the hotel and GDF call in a favour: _get them out before the storm settles in._

Easy. Evacuate everyone from the lodge to the train (before the blizzard). Pull the train down the mountainside with Thunderbird Two (_before_ the blizzard, bonus points if it's not frozen to the tracks_). _But simple never stays simple, that's what Scott's learnt since Dad's been gone. Especially when an unexpected, unexplained explosion takes place, and he can't get any reads about the situation from John, because coms cut out for an unexpected, unexplained reason.

And when the coms die - churning and bursting in his ear, then fading like the tail end of a final gasp - Scott Tracy freezes.

"Don't panic, Scott." Virgil says, very, very quietly.

"I'm not," he replies, though he's glad Virg is with him on the train, and not already in _Two_. Alan's somewhere up in the front carriages, taking a head count of all the passengers, and John's frantically trying to get the systems back up – they hope.

There's a beat, filled with low murmurs from the people in this carriage, all seated, waiting for the train to take them home. One man has the nerve to ask, _are we going, any time soon? I've got a plane to catch _and Scott pretends he doesn't hear. "We've got to help Gordon."

"Yeah, of course." Virgil places a hand on Scott's shoulder and squeezes. Once. Gently. "But we need to evacuate everyone else, too."

Scott's first thought, his instinctual, raw reaction is: _who cares about everyone else when it's our little brother?_

But Scott knows to override that thought by now, in favour of one Dad's drilled into him: _every life matters, no matter who they are, or what they've done, or how many times they piss you off._

"Right. Gordon's got more passengers with him," Scott says. "He said—"

"I know what he said, but there might not be time to wait." Virgil lowers his voice, because the passengers chatter among themselves, but only quietly, and the group panic that Scott's trying so hard to keep under control will be broken if they hear anything about _explosions _or _no time_. Scott's a sweet talker when he needs to be, and a smooth liar, but recovering from a slip like that would be a nightmare.

"For one, I'm not pulling this thing down the mountain during a category five snowstorm. The wind is picking up already, and now we don't have John to be our _every-five-second_ weather reporter, I've got to play it by feel." Virgil looks around before leaning in closer to Scott's ear. "Secondly, if there's any chance of another explosion, who knows what it'll trigger. A stationery train and an avalanche don't mix."

Scott swallows the word _avalanche _like it's shards of glass, but he does not panic. He draws in a quick breath and sees it exhaled into the air. "Well, _thanks_, Virg, I wasn't even thinking about _that_."

"In his notable absence, I'm just saying what John would be saying."

"You are." And there's more he wants to say, but Scott doesn't ask because Virgil is staring at him with _that _look – the look which measures Scott, what he can take, and what his reaction might be if Virgil says anything else at all.

But no. It's still simple.

"I'll go and get Gordon, and you can pull the train back down the mountain now, while we're still clear," Scott says. "We'll move everyone into the front carriages. Just to be safe. It'll be warmer that way, anyway."

"I'll have to take it slow," Virgil says. "And I'll need Alan's help."

"Of course. You get Alan on your way out. Tell him to keep everyone together, and to keep them calm. Give the passengers an update as you go."

"Right," doubt infiltrates Virgil's _right_, even though Scott knows he'd never consciously let it in.

"Don't wait for us," Scott says, thinking maybe that'll answer the unaired question ambling in Virgil's eyes. "You're right, you've got to get them out before this storm really settles in. If coms aren't back up, I won't be able to contact you once I'm out there, but we've still got _Thunderbird One_. I'll load whoever's left into her."

"I don't like not being able to contact you." Virgil says. It's not a _don't go_, or an _I can't do this, _but a simple, statement that Scott appreciates greatly. Not being in contact with Virgil means half of Scott will be left on the train. It's not a tragedy, but a fact.

"I know. But I'll meet you back home."

"Alright, but don't stay out too long," Virgil says. "I don't know if you noticed, but it's snowing pretty heavy out there."

Scott smiles, ever so slightly. "Yeah, well, at least it'll douse the flames."

Once he's outside the train, away from brothers and noise, and into the cold, Scott Tracy does not panic.

But he does run.

Not because it was Gordon asking for help, but because of the way he asked. How his voice, even over the com, threatened to fracture apart. Gordon's voice cracking is almost like the end of the world to Scott, so he runs before it falls out from under his feet.

* * *

They weren't snow penguins, the one's Dad took Gordon to see. They were little and blue and lived beneath people's houses near the beach. And the people didn't care. They had small yellow street signs that said _penguin crossing_ to make sure everyone would know where they were, to keep them safe.

It wasn't the first time Gordon had been to see them either, but it was the first time he'd been with Dad. Mum used to take him, in the school holidays, and they'd talk about nesting patterns, the habitat, their diet of clupeoid and cephalopods – _do you think we could make a colony for them, one day, Mum? I'll look after them, I swear. I'll catch food for them all and look after their eggs –_

_That's not how it works, sweetheart. We can't interfere with nature_, _or we'd only be making the species more dependent. In the long run, we'd do more harm than good. Do you understand that?_

It had been cold and windy the night they took the train one final time.

Dad didn't speak, but he wrapped an arm around Gordon's shoulder as they stood on the cliff edge, looking down toward the moonlit ocean, _waiting. _Gordon had a coat then, one of Virgil's hand-me-down's that was far too big but very warm.

They waited longer than anyone should ever wait to see a penguin, but Dad was patient. He joked about the smell and the cold, but never about the waiting, or what they were waiting for. Then - _look, there's one_, Dad said, all falsely excited. He was more enthusiastic about seeing the steam train than the penguins, but he was trying, and Gordon was trying, and it was _nice._

Because too often back then, Gordon and Jeff were as the wild ocean was to the weathered cliffs – all draw back and clash, no middle ground. Dad: steadfast, Gordon: unrelenting, and every now and again, something would _crumble – why did it happen? Why didn't someone save her, Dad?_

_Why didn't you?_

* * *

Gordon has crawled over to the purple sweater, not to put it on, but to put two fingers on the wrist that's wearing it to try and feel a pulse. He does feel one – _pounding alongside his head_ – so he starts to dig through the snow to get her out. Thinking of Dad and Virgil's coat makes it less cold, though his breath billows and his shoulders ache.

She was his responsibility; his job was to guide them from the hotel to the train. It wasn't that hard, what, a five-minute walk? What kind of rescuer was he, walking his wards right into an explosion?

And what right did these flames have to exist in the cold at all?

Hands tear at the never-ending snow, but he can't find who the sweater belongs to. Gordon's own fingers are starting to get numb, and there are tears but they're frozen because Gordon can't remember how many people he was guiding to the train, and he can't see the train, or the _Thunderbirds_, he can only see snow and flames. Sparks are torn free by the wind, dancing across the night sky, a thousand fading stars to add to those above him – but the fire in the trees is quickly fading, and too soon it'll only be the light of Gordon's flashlight that's falling on anything at all.

"Gordon!"

When Gordon turns around and sees Dad heading towards him, there's no relief, only a clawing panic.

_I'm getting her, Dad, I'm getting her. I'm gonna get her out, you'll see._

Long ago, when somebody – _A friend? The press? The therapist? – _ asked Jeff to describe his boys in one word, Dad had said, _he couldn't possibly reduce them to one word_ – but then he tried, and words like fearless and generous were thrown around, until they got to Gordon, and all that fell out was _impossible._

Impossibly fierce? Impossibly defiant? Impossibly stubborn, talented, courageous?

_Just_ impossible, and it didn't mean anything, son, it was just a word. But Gordon carries that _impossible_ in his throat along with the taste of smoke and cold air of the sea. It weighs on him like the snow that's falling on his shoulders, and Gordon will find this woman buried beneath it, so he can become impossibly dedicated, and somebody, somewhere will get their mother back like he never would.

So that a child would never say _why didn't someone save her, Dad?Why didn't you?_

"Gordon, stop." Scott takes in the scene quickly: dying trees, debris, blood. A body to the left – quick check, there's no pulse. Gordon to the right digging frantically in the snow, flakes in his hair, his eyelashes, his fingers red. His gloves have been discarded, half buried, and a jacket too.

"Gordon," Scott catches his brother around the waist to get him to stop digging, but Gordon's still trying, tearing at the snow with his hands.

"We need to help them," Gordon mumbles, but it comes out slurred and there's blood running down the side of his head, staining his suit and the snow and his skin. _Shit._ Gordon's never been one to ask for help, but a little,_ the explosion got me, too_ would've been nice. "She's still alive…she's under there…"

"Stop." Scott tries to hold him still, but Gordon's entire body is shivering, resisting against touch. "Hey, stop, it's me-"

"I felt her pulse…we need to get her out, before it's too late."

It is already too late, Scott knows it. It was already too late five minutes ago, because Gordon's pointing to a wrist which no longer belongs to a body at all.

"T-there's a five to fifteen-minute window for people buried beneath snow," Gordon says, though the words are not light or fluid or _Gordon_. They are words researched, and repeated, and driven into his little brother, much like banging his head against a wall _over and over. _ "Before the carbon dioxide…Five to fifteen. You know. There's still time."

It's cruel to say, _she's dead,_ _Gordon_, Scott knows that, but maybe it's crueler not to.

"Hey, look at me, Gords," Scott says, instead, as gently as a man can when he knows he's on a deadline. He moves his hands up to Gordon's shoulders and grips them tightly. Gordon's eyes are bright and hyper-alert– _from the cold, from the adrenaline, from the bump on the head? "_Were there other people with you? How many?"

Gordon frowns and winces, then shakes his head. "I don't know, but…I'll find them."

A gust of wind threatens to topple them both, and it sends soft, unsettled snow back into the current, swirling and blinding and deadly.

When it ceases, briefly, Scott takes one hand away from Gordon – worried if he lets too much pressure go, Gordon will simply pitch forward with the wind. He digs into his utility belt. There's a compact first aid kit in one of the pouches which has enough bandage to go around Gordon's head _once_._ Twice._ _Three times. _This is not enough, but it's better than nothing. "We'll look together, but I need you to be okay first."

As Scott wraps it, Gordon's hands find Scott's wrists, resisting and clinging at the same time. His eyes have drifted away from Scott, unfocused. "I…I can't leave, I've got to save her, Dad. There's still time."

If snow can get faster and colder, it does.

If the night could get darker, it slips down another shade.

Scott Tracy does not panic, but this, this might just make him.

Scott cups the side of Gordon's face, wiping blood away from the corner of his eye with his thumb. "Not Dad, Gordo. It's me, Scott. Can you see me?"

Gordon blinks. Squeezes his eyes shut. Opens them again. No words.

"We've got to go, bud." Scott says it slowly this time, low and firm.

There's a deep, rising rumble in the earth, and for a moment, Scott thinks _avalanche? Explosion?_ But then he remembers it's a familiar rumble, a signature quiver of _Thunderbird Two_ as her thrust builds, and Scott feels his attention go from _split_ to _singular_ in an instant.

_They'll be okay, those people. They're safe. They'll all be okay._

Gordon looks at the blood and the snow and shakes his head. "No, I…I can't leave them—"

"We're not leaving them, I'll come back once you're safe, alright? I'll get them out."

"_No_ Scott," Gordon snaps, and Scott sees not a rescuer, not an athlete, or a hero, but his little brother, wavering and bright and raw. "It'll be too late."

"No, it won't, it won't, I promise," Scott's hit with an instant rebound of regret – that's a promise he can't keep, and he already knows it.

Gordon tries to get back to the snow, to the jacket, but Scott holds on tight. "She's dying. She's losing air, we've _got _to find her—"

"_Gordon._" Scott channels his father, not because Gordon ever listened to him, but because something might resonate in his brain and sing, _she's in safe hands. _"I won't leave her here."

It takes a moment – a very long, very wild moment, where the snow cuts at Scott's ears and neck – before Gordon nods and relaxes his grip on Scott's arms. "It's cold, "he says, as flames spit and die behind him.

"I know," Scott wraps an arm around Gordon's waist to help him stand. He's shaky for a moment, but Scott holds them both against the wind, strong and steadfast. "But It'll be warm soon, I promise."

That is a promise Scott can keep, and although they battle a dark, uphill climb to get to _Thunderbird One_, the cold and the spit of the snow doesn't touch Scott, not when he's got a brother in his arms and a decision to make. A simple decision: to stay or go. He made a promise to Gordon that he'd go back and look for any lost people.

But nothing's ever simple.

Break a promise and get Gordon to safety, leaving behind potential victims. Keep a promise, look for survivors, but risk Gordon.

Scott could ask: what would Dad do?

But the head of International Rescue would be ordering him back to the site – _go and look for those people, son, you don't leave that mountain until everyone's accounted for, understood? Every life matters, no matter what._

And the father-side, the side which reared its head occasionally – _nightmares of countless near misses_ _and real-life misses– _would be saying – _get my boy home, Scott._

Scott could leave Gordon In _Thunderbird One_ and go and search for survivors, but he doesn't know how many people were with his brother in the first place. And no matter how much Scott wishes for his level-headed brother's advice, John's not looking like he'll spring up any time soon either, to tell him who and how and where.

Still, Scott _could_ go solo, but he might find himself in the middle of a blinding blizzard, with no coms, little light and limited one-man resources. He might not return to _Thunderbird One _at all, and blood is already seeping through the bandages around Gordon's head wound and onto Scott's shoulder.

Scott promised Gordon that he would go back, that he wouldn't leave that woman alone, but there are lots of _might's _and not many definite's about this situation. And although Scott often works with the _might's, _the woman is already dead, and his brother isn't.

So, when he puts it that way, maybe the decision is simple.

Gordon's incoherent by the time they reach _One_, so he's doesn't protest when Scott heads to the controls and kicks herinto gear. Not because its hopeless, or because Scott thinks there's no one else out there – he _doesn't _know, and that scares the shit out of him – but because Gordon's life matters too, Dad, and Scott's not losing anyone else to the snow.

* * *

Gordon wakes and his head is on a cliff, looking out toward an ocean of sea-mist - clouded and blurred and full of echoes. The shapes in the room are a blur too, although blinking makes them clearer. And there is sun on his bed, not snow, or ash, or blood. Just warmth.

Gordon shifts, slightly, and yesterday falls through him like a ghost. He remembers the quiet and the smoke in his throat and a purple jacket, with painted fingernails. Closing his eyes is a projector, a black and white replay. There's a man and a wrist and pain in his chest that threatens to bubble into his throat. Eyes open again. Gordon taps at his watch and whispers, "_Scott?"_

Part of him wonders, when Scott doesn't reply, if coms are still down and he's here in the house alone. But Scott's footsteps on the landing are loud enough to ease that fear, and he soon ducks through the door. _"_Hey, Gords, you okay?"

He sits next to Gordon's legs, in the stream of the sun.

Gordon nods, once. Words are thin and cracked. "Is everyone…?"

"Fine. Good. They're sleeping." This indicates that Scott hasn't been, and the circles beneath his eyes add weight to that. Gordon wonders how long it's been since his brother _really_ slept. "Everyone was evacuated."

Well, not everyone.

Gordon coughs, pressure ripping through his head. "Good."

Birds twitter outside.

There's a very distant crash of an – _the, his_ \- ocean.

"They were already dead, weren't they?" Gordon whispers, and he sees the blood and the snow, and his brothers face. The light spilling through the door is back, guilt pooling at his feet. Gordon remembers digging, remembers his heart falling through his chest.

Scott blinks, surprised – that he remembers anything? That some part of him knew? That a stronger part of him longed to be able to save her there, especially _there_?

Gordon reaches for his brothers' wrist, but it becomes his hand, and Gordon squeezes tightly. "God, I'm so sorry Scott, I wasn't…I didn't mean to…"

"Don't." Scott says, returning the squeeze, then detaching his hand to place on Gordon's knee to stop the jittering. "Don't apologize for things you could never have controlled."

Gordon's lip catches between his teeth. "Right."

"But you _can_ apologise for not saying something was wrong _sooner._"

Gordon masks a wince. Fair call. "I'm sorry."

"I know. You scared the shit out of me."

"You should be used to it by now."

"Yeah, well," Scott looks out toward the window, and doesn't finish his sentence. _Yeah, well, impossible. _

Gordon could ask _what caused the explosion?_ _What happened to the coms? How long did we stay? Did you go back for them? Were there other people? Did I sabotage this rescue, did I hinder more than help, was it my fault?_

But he doesn't, because they are questions he doesn't want to know the answer to. Just like, when he asked Dad, _do you think she suffered? _And Dad had said,_ well, there's a five to fifteen-minute period for those buried beneath snow, so not for long, son. Not for long._

But fifteen minutes drowning sounded like an awful long time to Gordon, and that was essentially the same thing.

"They didn't find Mum for nine hours, Scott." Gordon says, instead of asking a question. This might be the worst alternative, but he feels the bubbling in his chest ease, feels his fingers relax.

Scott turns his head back towards Gordon, and there's an odd, fall of peace. "I know."

"I just wanted to…I didn't want to leave people up there, like her. Alone."

Scott doesn't answer for a very long time. Gordon wonders, after all, if he should ask, _did you go back? Was there anyone else? _

"And I didn't want to lose you, like her." Scott murmurs. There is fatigue in his face that isn't just from lack of sleep, so Gordon doesn't ask, and he doesn't push.

"You didn't," Gordon says. "You won't."

Gordon can pretend Scott went back, even if he didn't. Just like he can pretend Mum wasn't alone, surrounded by prehistoric fossils, and volcanic ash, and pollen, and snowflakes she once caught in her smile, even if she wasn't. Just like he can pretend a bit of her made sure he came home last night, made sure he stayed warm when he should have been frozen. Made sure he was further from the blast than he should have been.

Because a piece of space comes down to earth every time it snows, and who's to say it's not a piece of the stars?


End file.
